if you touch me, I will move.
I am not a rock of canine teeth or swirl.
it was the sanctuary of shade
that struck me dumb the third side of a coin.
I swallowed whole the second day he rose.
it was the third day when I chose
to spit my trowel and diet with the worms.
my second skin of flesh now sixtyfour
my jaw-bone soft and sulking like a book,
a paper-back. a multitude of whims.
if you touch me, I will bruise.
I am not an art of noise or rancid smell.
it was the salt i craved
from a table-spoon of wine on a broken nerve.
I drank it dry and puked all scenes away.
it was the anti-social mouth I fed.
my twin of most unorthadox.
his schizo-effective polaroid
straight between the guise
a slice of lemon hanging from it\'s eyes.
if you kiss me, I will die.
I will kick my blood and lick my bandaid dry.
I have harboured pain four times a river deep.
my idle oils on camel skin.
it was the hands too heavy handed in a curse
when I murdered my distractions
with unaccompanied disguise
brushed my hair of still-born cells of white.
when the second-comming plucked me from the vine
and hacked my black viola out of spite.